1800WhereRYou: Anew
by beebee17
Summary: This is a 1800WhereRYou fic. This story includes Jess's parents' reactions to her relationship with Rob, the aftermath of the events in Sanctuary, and what happens when Jess herself gets kidnapped. Read and Review, please! Love, BeeBee.
1. Chapter One

Note: This story takes place immediately after _Sanctuary_. Oh yeah, and I plan to make it as long as a normal Jenny Carroll book…wish me luck. And I'll try not to post any addendums to author's notes at the end.

Or I'll just write as few notes as possible.

And please, please, please, review.

And also know that I didn't plan on posting this until I had all of it written. But Sweet-Oklahoma reviewed a Mediator story and asked about this one. I decided to change my mind.

Disclaimer: I disclaim this entire story…so now don't expect me to waste energy on disclaiming the rest of the story. I don't own anything, unless I make up characters you don't recognize.

Welcome to _1-800-Where-R-You: Anew_

And I will shut up now.

Chapter One:

"Mom," I said, with a smile, still not getting up. "Dad. Glad you're here. I'd like you to meet my boyfriend, Rob."

I said this and everybody—well, Mike-and-Claire, Doug-and-Tasha, Ruth and her brother, Skip, at least—filed out of the room, looking quite shocked and leaving me behind to deal with what I hoped would not become World War Three with my parents. Only I don't think they were shocked to find out that Rob was my boyfriend—Claire, Mike, Ruth, Skip, Doug and Tasha already knew he was my boyfriend, anyway. But I do think Claire and Mike were shocked to see that Rob was my boyfriend. I think they expected him to be . . . well, different, if you know what I mean. And I think Ruth, Skip, Doug and Tasha were shocked to see that I'd finally told my parents. And Rob looked about ten times more shocked than any of them could ever feel.

I'd finally told them. About him, I mean. Something, I'm sure, that he'd never really expected to happen. But it did.

In the infamous words of Skip Abramowitz, "Whoa. Alert the Pentagon. The Mastriani household has just gone to Def Con One," or at least, it was something like that.

That's the truth. Most of the time, at least. But, to my surprise, Mom did not jump up and give Rob the third degree about his college plans, or lack thereof, and Dad didn't do anything out of character…he actually looked _happy_. Happy for _me_. Imagine that.

Mom remained silent, and Dad just said (with a smile, mind you), "Hi, Rob. I'm Joe Mastriani. Nice to meet you."

"You too, sir," Rob said.

"Toni?" Dad said.

Mom snapped out of her dream world, where she was most likely picturing which pattern she'd make me a new dress out of so I could "impress" Rob…What? It's kind of hard to look like One Hot Babe in gingham, you know? I mean, come on: it's gingham, for Pete's sake! But whatever…Dad owes me big time. Payment in full of a Harley… Okay, I will admit that some of Mom's dresses aren't so bad, like the green sheath dress (The dress I will hopefully wear to Rob's uncle's wedding), for example. But the Laura Ingalls thing gets old. Fast. Especially on school picture day.

Anyway Mom said with this totally sickening fake smile on her face, "Hi, Rob! I'm Toni Mastriani, Jess's mom. Nice to meet you."

Over-doing it much, Mom? Whatever. I mean, I know I should be happy that she loves me enough to not start in about Rob's whole not-going-to-college thing (in front of him, at least. I was pretty sure she'd have a lot to say when I got home), and that her initial reaction to finding out that he's my boyfriend wasn't the one she'd had when she and my dad had picked me up from the police station that time after Rob and I saved Heather Montrose's life…Yeah the one where she started in about how he's too old for me and how he works at a garage and blah, blah, blah. I mean, if she'd said all that to his face, that'd be it; I'd have a freaking embolism right there in the hospital room. But, let's face it, she was way over-doing it. You could fully see that the smile on her face was totally painted on, like the smile on a Barbie doll.

But may I take this time to point out that even though he has no plans of actually attending a four-year college, Rob has had an actual goal for his life since before his high-school graduation? He wants to own his own motorcycle repair shop so he can fix motorcycles and stuff. And that, let me also point out, is way preferable to the alternative, which, for most guys that are Rob's age, is wasting their parent's valuable money on frat parties and booze, caring nothing about college or passing any of their classes, just making sure that they don't get _too_ trashed at their next party. And Rob? He's helping his mother to earn money. Now tell, me, what is so wrong with going out with a guy like that? Given that, there is nothing my parents would disapprove of Rob about, except for maybe the probation thing…and the fact that he doesn't plan on going to college.

All I have to say in response is "Oh freaking well!" because I am going to go out with Rob, no matter what.

"Well, it's nice to meet you, too, ma'am," Rob said in response to my mother's _Oscar worthy _performance.

"Well, we'll go and leave you two kids alone for a while…I bet you two have a lot to talk about. Pick you up in an hour, Jess," Dad said. "You'll be alright until then, won't you?"

Alright? Of course! He was practically telling me to make out with my boyfriend!

And, too, I could have sworn that as they left, Dad gave me and Rob the thumbs-up sign…a _good_ sign. I mean, I could totally tell by that sign that he said it was okay for us to date, and whatever Mom said would be said. I could date Rob no matter what she said, and all because Dad said it was okay before she could protest.

Which she would. Most likely when I got home, too.

"See, Mastriani? That wasn't so bad, was it?" Rob said, apparently getting over his initial shock of having—finally—been introduced to my parents, and without any wars or fights . . . okay, I deserved that for all the trouble I put him through about going out with me and all.

"No, it wasn't. I'm sorry for not introducing you to them sooner…I was just being a stupid brat," I said. "I'll have to find a way to repay you someday."

"Someday? Forget it, Mastriani," he said. "You can start now."

Then he kissed me, which was nice, and all that romantic crap people talk about, but you really didn't need to know that, did you? And we just kind of kept kissing for a while, letting him finish proving how he liked me too much, until I decided to dive in for the plunge: asking him if we were still going on a date.

"So how about you and me going to see a movie Friday night?" I said, although I genuinely had no idea what was showing at the cinema.

"Yeah, but I've got one condition," he said, "We don't cancel for anything, especially if it involves the angry mashed-potato bowl wielding wives of idiotic white supremacists."

I laughed, really, I just couldn't help it. "Okay, okay. What else?"

"I said 'one condition', you _nimrod_."

I just looked at him, although, I did deserve that, too. "Hey! No fair!"

"Well, that's what you called me," he said, chuckling to himself. I hate men sometimes: they do stupid stuff and then get mad when you call them nimrods.

"Okay, okay, I deserved that."

"Rob, Dr. Krantz asked me if I wanted to work for the FBI again today…he has a whole team of people like me, and they find criminals and other important bad people. Agent Smith even apologized for all that they've done to me. And probably you, too. Anyway, I told him I'd think about it. What do you think?" Might as well ask now while he might actually listen to me. I don't know why, but Rob was seemingly in a good mood...Gee I wonder why.

"I don't know. I mean, it doesn't sound so bad." Huh, really? That was coming from Rob? Wow. Morpheme, that's good stuff.

Just then, Dad knocked on the door, and I went, "Call me!" to Rob.

He just looked at me and went, "You got it."

I smiled, and I think he smiled back, and let me tell you, that felt pretty good, and for once, I almost felt normal, but knowing my life, that feeling won't last for very long.

I was still smiling when I got into my dad's car, five minutes or so later.

Although, there was a strange thing I noticed: we weren't going home. Dad was driving in the direction of Wendy's, where he'd take me to get a Frosty after the burn therapy I went through for my leg. This couldn't be good, I knew.

"Jess," Dad said as I ate a few spoonfuls of my Frosty. "Can we talk for a minute?"

The smile on my face vanished. Instantly, my hands were about as cold as the ice cream in my them, but not because I was holding the cup too tightly: I was dreading what would happen next. "Talk about what?" I asked.

"Your boyfriend. And your mother."

Oh crap. I gulped to keep that Frosty down. This did not sound like a pleasant discussion, and at that moment, I was in too good of a mood to ruin it by talking about my boyfriend and my parents' wishes for me to dump him. No. No. _No. _Remember when I was little, Dad, and I said "no" to everything? Yeah, well, I'm saying "no" to this discussion. I am _NOT_ dumping my boyfriend. Never. I know, I'm quite a brat when I put my mind to it.

But it turned out that I didn't have that to worry about…he was actually telling me that I could date Rob. "Listen, your mother . . . well, she's not exactly happy about your choice in boys. You can guess why. But I like him, and she knows that. I told her that trying to keep you away from him wouldn't help her . . . Do you understand what I'm saying?" I nodded, as if I did understand. "Jess, if your mother had it her way, you'd be calling Rob and saying good-bye right about now, but I talked her into giving him a chance. How does that sound, kiddo?"

"Good." Seriously, what did he expect me to say?

"And just so you won't have to hear it from her, I told her I'd tell you her only condition for it. You can date him, but if he, you know, tries anything, you have to break things off with him."

"Um, okay," I said, thinking of all the places I'd rather have been. And it didn't have to be making out with Rob on a nice cushy couch, either. You know, I really would not have minded being on the set of _The Texas Chain Saw Massacre _right about then. Or even at Crane Military Base.

Yeah, yeah. I'm not stupid, you know. And Rob's not like that, obviously enough, to me, but not, apparently, to my mother. I said that because when I said, "But Rob's not like that, Dad. He told me that he didn't want to go out with me for, like, six months before he just couldn't tell me that anymore and gave in. The fact that he and I are going out is my fault," he just went, "I know. But your mother wanted me to tell you that. I don't know why because, knowing her, you won't hear the end of it for a while." I guess my dad trusts my judgment of character better than my mom does.

He and I sat in Wendy's parking lot for about an hour talking, and really, just plain catching up. Which was nice, really. I mean, it was almost like old times, before Douglas went on his wrist-slitting expenditure and I got hit by lightning and developed this ultra-special power to find missing people and before Mike dropped out of an Ivy-league school and before the "True Americans" showed up, you know?

I was so happy that day. Even when Aunt Rose started in about my skirt at dinner (it is not that short! Ugh. I don't like old people! Ditto their judgments on fashion), I didn't complain, or even get in a bad mood, or grumble to Mike and Doug later about what a pain in the ass she is. Instead, I simply rejoiced in the fact that she was leaving the next day.

That night, when I went to go practice my flute, I didn't play my orchestra piece, instead I played what I could of the vocal part to No Doubt's "Underneath it All" (because Ruth stopped me).

I wasn't very far into the song when Ruth, standing on my front lawn, went, "So Gwen, did Gavin propose or something?"

Unaware of what she was referring to, my brilliant response to her remark was, "Huh?" I am so eloquent . . .

"I was coming over here to deliver a package from Rosemary and to ask you if you'd like to practice our orchestra pieces, but it looks like you're more interested in giving the entire neighborhood a free No Doubt concert…

"But it is sort of romantic…you and him…it's like Romeo and Juliet."

Okay . . . this statement officially freaked me out . . . I mean, it didn't make much sense coming from somebody with an IQ of 167, you know? Clearly she must remember the end of the play: we read it in the ninth grade, for Pete's sake. Hell, I don't remember much about it, just that Romeo and Juliet commit suicide at the end.

"Ruth, are you on crack? Rob and I are not going to kill ourselves. First, we're allowed to date, and secondly, I'm—and Rob—am not that stupid, okay?"

"Yeah, but it's disgustingly romantic . . . Just like you."

I didn't respond because if she didn't shut up about my boyfriend, I was going to jump down from my third-story bedroom window and pound her.

"Good, God. Just tell me what happened after I left. It must be pretty good, since you seem to have morphed into Gwen Stefani over it."

She said that with some contempt because she:

A) Thinks I'm weird,

B) Thinks Rob is a jerk, and

C) Doesn't like Gwen Stefani . . . or No Doubt.

Yeah, so you don't need a smart person to tell you that Ruth was just a little angry with me. She compared me with Gwen Stefani…that's certainly an indication of her anger: Ruth doesn't like No Doubt because their lyrics are full of lovey-dovey romantic crap.

Not knowing what else to say, I just said, "Rob met my parents. My parents met Rob. No big deal."

"It was not 'no big deal'. Spill."

"Okay, okay. They said we could go out."

Ruth said a bad word.

"I just don't want to be around when he dumps you . . . See you tomorrow, I'll just give this envelope tomorrow."

Annoyed at her pessimism, I tried to finish getting ready to go to bed without forgetting Mr. Goodhart's anger-management techniques.

I was almost ready for bed when I heard Shave-And-A-Haircut knocked on my door. Dad. That's how he knocks on the door. "Phone," Dad said.

I picked up the extension, "Hello?"

No one answered me. All I could hear of the other person at the other end of the line was static and some breathing-type noises.

"Look, I don't know who you are, but you're being a complete jerk, and I don't appreciate it," I said.

Laughter. That's what came from the other end of the line.

My life sucks, I tell you.

I could tell by the type of laugh that the person on the other end of the phone line was a male. Great, just great. The only calls I get from guys (save the few times my actual BOYFRIEND calls) happen to be calls from psychopathic creeps. And usually psychopathic creeps that want to kill me…or torch my dad's restaurant, whichever happens to be more convenient for them.

Oh yeah, and when my boyfriend calls, we don't talk about which movie we're going to see on Friday night…no, we're discussing how to take down a back-woods militia group . . . my life is just a nice, big bowl of cherries, huh?

And all the Frosties in the world won't change that, will they?

Probably not.


	2. Chapter Two

**_Thanks to all the people who have read and reviewed! Love, BeeBee._**

**Chapter Two: **

"Jessica," the guy said, "I need to talk to you."

Oh, so the guy _can_ speak.

"Talk? Oh, that's funny. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha-_freaking_-ha. You know, I don't want to talk to somebody whose name I don't know. Most mothers tell their kids not to talk to strangers. You know that don't you? I guess not…because your mother never told you not to be such a creep."

Can you really blame me? I mean, I was more than a little hacked at that stupid jerk.

"Jessica--" he said.

"No, I don't want to hear it. Whoever you are, I don't want to talk to you. Ever. If you called my house so you could harass me, it worked, and you can just hang up and(" and then I gave him some other instructions I learned in detention last year that included where he should get off, where he should go, and what he should do when he got there. I don't think I have to write down exactly what I said, because I think I'll remember it for the rest of my life.

"Jessica, please, I need to tell you something--"

"Oh what?" I said cutting him off. "Your name?"

"Don't start working for Dr. Krantz. He's not like he seems. I know. Don't ask how. Just trust me."

Well, I think I was right about this dude being a psycho. I mean, why should I trust him? He wouldn't even tell me his name.

"Oh, you must think you're pretty _freaking_ funny, huh? Let me tell you something for future reference: I don't take advice from people I don't know. So get off my phone and go collect your one-hundred bucks from whatever friend you've got listening on an extension or whatever, but just leave me alone." Only I didn't say _freaking._

Then before he could say another word, I slammed the phone down onto the receiver with such a force that my mom, who was in her bedroom downstairs, came up stairs and went, "Jessica, are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine, Mom."

"Okay," she said hesitantly. "Well, if there's anything you need to talk about, I'm here. It's not about that _boy_ is it?"

"No," I said, starting to get pissed, "It doesn't have anything to do with Rob. Rob and I are fine."

"Alright, if you say so," she said, shaking her head, turning to leave.

You might be wondering why I didn't just tell my mom about the psycho whom I had been so nonchalantly conversing with. The thing is, the less Mom knows, the better. You see, mom has always wanted her own normal family. _Brady Bunch_-normal, I mean. Only, Mom has never exactly gotten what she wanted…instead, she got a schizophrenic son (Douglas), another son who—up until recently—was a social leper (Mike), a psychic daughter (me) and a husband who's pretty much okay with all of that (Dad). Yeah, that's not very normal, according to my mom's Theory of How Life in the Mastriani Household Should Be. Besides, Mom worries about Doug too much, and adding me to that list would not be a good thing. . .

My feather pillow took a few punches (what? I was only letting off a _little_ steam) and then I went to bed.

Only, as I lay there, looking up at the darkness of my room I wondered just how that guy knew who I was, and how he'd gotten my phone number. And most importantly, how he'd known that I was about to start working for the government. I mean, the only person who knew that was Rob…and the guy on the phone didn't sound in the least like Rob.

I got up the next morning and got ready for school, which, since Rob no longer attends Ernie Pyle High, is a total drag. I mean, the only other person who might be worth going there to see (for me, at least) is my best friend…but Ruth lives next-door, which is nice because every morning, I have an automatic ride to the hellhole of a school I attend. I mean, can't I just go for Orchestra and then leave? Of course, I'm not even free of Karen Sue Hankey during that class, either.

Whatever. I just got dressed (reverting to my old ways: jeans and a t-shirt. Great Aunt Rose would have had a fit about how "only cheap girls wear dungarees," but she was on a bus back to Chicago, thank God), realizing for the first time how exhausting taking down a secret militia group can be. Seriously, it's a killer. I went downstairs for breakfast, and my dad goes, "This is this morning's newspaper. I think you might want to take a look at it," and then he handed me the paper.

_**LOCAL TEENS CHANGE LIVES OF ENTIRE TOWN**_

Two presumably local anonymous teenagers, a male and a female, helped to take down a secret backwoods militia group called the "True Americans" with the help of a few area locals of the outer city-limits of Podunk. Several people were hurt during last night's fight seen, in which the teens were involved. An unnamed source claims that the two teens posed to join the True Americans and later broke out a fight with them, while several area locals—who have purportedly known about the anti-African-American, anti-Semitic, anti-immigrant group for some time—came to serve as a back-up force for the young couple.

"I had no idea that such a group existed," said one Podunk resident, Mrs. Lippman, "I saw the snake symbol that the group used, but I thought it was a silly gang tag…I'm glad to know that these two young, brave kids had the courage to disband that horrible group."

Dr. Thompkins, whose son, Nate Thompkins, aged sixteen, was brutally murdered by the group purportedly because he was an African-American, had this to say when confronted with a question concerning the incident, "I am glad to know that the organization responsible for my son's death has been brought to justice…a 'thank you' is not enough for the people who sought to bring the militia group to justice."

Well, it seems as if the group has been brought to justice indeed. James Henderson, the man responsible for the militia's organization, faces charges on kidnapping, two counts of murder, polygamy, and cruel treatment to animals, when he gets out of the hospital, that is.

Whoever these brave souls are, the town of Podunk, Indiana owes you a collective thank-you.

That was the most beautiful newspaper article I've ever read. Except for maybe mine and Rob's imaginary future wedding announcement article. But it hasn't been written yet…I'm working on it, though. I mean, I know that I probably won't get married until I'm finished with college (that is not my decision…my parents put the verbatim on that), but it doesn't hurt to prepare…or daydream about married life with the Hottie of all Hotties, even if I've barely gotten him to kiss me. I mean, I introduced him to my parents, so we're okay to date, despite the whole jailbait factor and the probation thing (and what did he do to get probation for, anyway? I mean, he couldn't have killed somebody, robbed a bank, or whatever else I can think of, because, you don't get probation for killing people or robbing a bank: you get jail), but _WHAT DOES IT MATTER???_

Anyway…I finished my breakfast, fed Chigger his Puppy Chow, and ran out the door to Ruth's convertible when she honked, still thinking about what my kids with Rob should look like (both with dark hair, one kid—a boy—with grey eyes, and a girl with brown eyes,—like me—and they should be tall,—like Rob—and good fighters,—like me—and they should be smart—like Rob).

I opened the car door and met a frosty glare from Ruth. "What are you so happy about?" she demanded. What is with her? What does she think? That I can't be happy? That I can't smile? That I can't be glad I have a boyfriend? That I shouldn't imagine what my kids with him would look like? I mean, I really want to know, because this "What are you so happy about" remark is totally uncalled for. She should know what I'm happy about. Then again, she's probably not happy with me for that reason.

I didn't answer her, since, like I said, she should already know.

"Never mind. Here, this is from Rosemary," she said, grumpily. You know, I wonder if something is going wrong in her relationship with Scott, and that's why she disapproves the way she does of my (happy) relationship with Rob. I guess I really should let Mr. Goodhart cancel our weekly meetings: I'm beginning to sound just like him.

I opened the package. As always, there was a letter from Rosemary and a picture of a missing kid.

_Dear Jess,_

I hope this finds you well, as I've heard of some rather disturbing events have happened in your hometown recently.

Thank you for your help with the discovery of missing children. Without your help, many children would be without their parents even longer . . .

This photograph is of Peter Gosnell, who was taken from his daycare center in Southern California last fall. His parents don't know who took him, and the police have only a few suspects, all of whom they cannot locate . . .

Love,

Rosemary

Tucked inside the padded envelope with Rosemary's letter was a photograph of a cute little kid, who must have been around three or four. He was a cute blonde, with twinkly blue eyes and a few still-growing-in teeth visible in his smile.

"Cute kid," Ruth said. I'd been so absorbed in reading the letter and studying the picture, that I'd forgotten she was even in the car.

"Yeah."

"You know, I'm glad you do that for Rosemary, I really am, Jess. I mean, without you, those kids would probably never make it back to their parents. So, what about the Feds? Do they know?"

"Yeah, they know. They asked me to work for them, too," I said.

"So…?"

"So what?"

"Are you going to or not?"

"I don't know. I mean, they only ask for a few hours a week. He has an elderly lady and a boy our age working for it, and they like it. I just…I don't know…Something feels 'off' about it."

"Something's 'off' with you. We just drove by the Pike, and you didn't beg to go get 'doughnuts,'" she said, sarcastically. "I mean, now that you two are legit, you don't want to go gaze at his butt while he's leaning over a car's hood. Something is wrong with you today."

"Nothing's wrong with me--he's not working today."

Something was wrong with me, though. For some reason, I just couldn't tell her about that phone call. I mean, it was probably just a prank. I hope.

We pulled up at school, and right away, something was, well, unusual. First of all, there were the reporters and news vans. Then there was the fact that they were hurling questions at the students who tried to cram their way through the door.

The reporters shouted things like, "Do you know who foiled the True Americans?" and "Were any of you involved in the altercation Saturday night?" and my favorite, "Was Lightning Girl there?" at me and Ruth, as they did everybody else who walked by. Good old Feeney hadn't told them to get off school property…no, he was standing there, blatantly trying to find a way to draw attention to the school, taking advantage of the fact that our town was, once again, the center of a major news story, and that reporters, knowing it had to do with teenagers, came to the local high school.

We finally got into the building, and despite the fact that school is the only place that stays the same—it's always been hell for me, at least—our school day was every bit as unusual as the reporters on the school's front lawn. Everybody was talking about how "some girl and her boyfriend defeated the KKK." And some of the stories were even less accurate than that. At least the "some girl and her boy friend" part was right. I tried a few times to correct them, but Ruth pointed out that if I wanted to maintain my anonymity and keep letting people think that I had nothing to do with the whole thing, I had better shut up and let them say whatever they wanted to.

So the stories and whispers kept on and on. In my US Government class, we held a discussion of the KKK and what a horrible organization people believe it to be, and how people tend to dislike what is different from them, and stuff, instead of the three branches of the US government, and what they do for us; and in my trig class, the teacher made up an extra-credit word problem using the weekend's events ("…and so if there were five times as many True Americans as there were Grits and two times as many True Americans got injured as opposed to the Grits, and only seven Grits got hurt, how many True Americans were there in the first place?" _Who cares_?), and at lunch, some people in front of Ruth and me in line were talking about it, only I didn't hear what they said because my boyfriend—Rob—came waltzing into the caf, looking hot, as usual.

Several members of the female species got quiet. Fast. It was the lowest level of noise I've ever heard in the caf during lunch break. Tisha Murray and Heather Montrose must have never seen so hot a guy, judging by the way they were staring at him, and Karen Sue Hankey stood there, looking at him with her trademark sneer, apparently trying to figure out what to say to me after he left, or whatever.

Imagine their surprise when he leaned down (why can't I be taller?) and kissed me. On the lips. In front of everyone there. I was so glad I hadn't eaten yet.

"You were supposed to call me," I said, with a smile, only pretending to be annoyed.

"Yeah, whatever. Just thought I'd come say hi," he said.

Okay, so how is he going to say "bye"? Just wondering, in case I needed to break out the peppermints. . .

And so, he stayed with me during lunch, and left shortly afterward (he said it would be greatly unappreciated by my parents if I ditched class because of him. I said that there was no reason they needed to know, but then he pointed at Karen Sue Hankey. And that was that: I couldn't skip class with her hanging around. But he told me to call him sometime, that has to count for something, meaning that he at least still wants to go on a date).

And guess what? He and I are actually going to go on a real date on Friday! He won't tell me what we're going to do or where we're going, but why does it matter? _WE'RE GOING ON A DATE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_

I was so happy. As a matter of fact, I didn't even punch Karen Sue when she said, "So what do your parents think about the Grit?"

All I did was say, "They know, and my dad's been really cool about it and all." And I said it all chipper, like maybe I was a cheerleader (perish the thought!) and the school had allowed a thousand more dollars for the cheerleading fund this year, or something.

And Claire Lippman, who'd came in to get a salad (since it has many important vitamins to keep an actress healthy), said, "That's your boyfriend? I though Mike said he was a Grit."

"Well, it depends on your definition of 'Grit'," I said. "I mean, if your definition of a Grit is somebody who gets drunk while watching a NASCAR race and then looks at a black person and yells, 'Nigger!' and then gets into a fight, then no, he would not be considered a Grit. But if you think a Grit is simply somebody who lives outside of the town limits, but still in this county, then the answer is yes, he is a Grit."

"Then he's not a Grit," Claire said, "But he's definitely a hottie, I mean, it's true. He's hot."

Ruth, who'd been silent during the whole ordeal, rolled her eyes and said, "I will admit, he's not bad-looking, nor does he fit the stereotypical guidelines for being a Grit. But I still think you could do better, but I see there's no getting that through to you, Jess."

Then, after school, Ruth, Claire, and I went to the Thirty-One Flavors to discuss the Undo-ables, the Do-ables and the Hotties of our school.

A true girls' day out. I think so, anyway.


	3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three:

It is not my fault she's stupid.

I didn't break Karen Sue's nose on _purpose_, or at least without a _good _reason. I _swear_ it. I don't know, I mean, we were in the orchestra storeroom, and she just decided to make one of her stupid comments about "the Grit," which is her name for Rob. Which I suppose is reason enough to "contuse her proboscis" . . . I mean, "the Grit". It's just as bad as "the Jerk" or even "that Wilkins person". Why am I cursed by living around people that are so elitist and snobby? I guess they're just jealous. Jealous because I have a boyfriend, who I love very much, and he loves me, too, I think.

I very sternly advised her not to call him that, "Grit", I mean, but she didn't take the advice . . . further proof of her utter stupidity.

"So, your parents know about him . . . how do they take the fact that their daughter is slutting around with a _Grit_?"

That pissed me off. I don't know what my problem was. Maybe it was her . . .

Then I punched her. Hard. Then, she actually had the audacity to say, "So the rumor I heard last year is true then." You know, if she were smart, she wouldn't do stuff like that to people who have a little bit of an anger management problem. Especially if one of their methods of solving the problem is by beating the snot out of people, you know? Smart people just know not to do that.

"What rumor?"

"The one Hank Wendell was spreading. At first, I didn't believe it. I mean, why trust a Grit's rumor . . . but now, I see he was right."

I remembered then . . . about the rumor, and the fact that I'd forgotten to call Rob. Great, just great. I mean, I get a boyfriend, and I don't even remember to call him, and the rumor that I put out for him isn't even true. My life sucks. And while I am thinking about it, I bet she was just saying all that to get to me. Karen Sue would do anything to get popular—and to humiliate me—why not do both by spreading a rumor, even if it was made up by a Grit and totally false?

Although it probably wasn't right for me to have taken it out on Karen Sue, even if she did deserve to have her face smashed into a tuba case. If "smashed" is even the right word for it . . . I mean, I didn't hit her head too hard against it, or anything.

Fortunately for Karen Sue, Mr. Vine came into the storeroom and broke up the "fight" and sent us both to Mr. Goodhart. It was nice of him to include her in on the fun, even if I was the one who'd suffer all of the consequences. I mean, Karen Sue has everybody, save Ruth and me, and possibly Mark Leskowski (who was hating her—and me—from behind bars), snowed. Even Mr. Goodhart. No adult will ever wake up to the simple fact that she's a two-faced, back-stabbing—

Never mind. You get the point: I hate her.

The speech from Mr. Goodhart wasn't as bad as it normally would have been, except for the whole "Jessica, you were doing so well . . ." thing. I tried really, really hard not to get mad enough at anybody so as to hit him or her this year; I mean it.

But let's face the facts here; when I try to count to ten before deciding to punch Karen Sue Hankey, it so doesn't work. All counting to ten did for me was to make little white puncture marks from my fingernails on the palms of my hands. And, oh, yeah: make me want to hit her even harder than before. I know that violence never solves anything, but the sight of Karen Sue's blood-incrusted nose makes me feel a hell of a lot better. I'm sick, I know, but if you had to put up with her _stuff _half as much as I do, you'd probably do a lot more than break her nose. Lucky you, is all I have to say on the matter.

Mr. Goodhart, clearly troubled by my sudden decline in progress, only assigned me a week's detention. She got two weeks for purposefully antagonizing some one known to have a volatile temper, and for spreading false rumors, and for name-calling some one. Yeah, the part I forgot to mention? Mr. Vine had walked into the storeroom, just as she called me a bad name.

Ha, ha, ha. Poor Karen Sue, and I hope you sense some sarcasm in that. But even though my "punishment" wasn't as bad as hers was, Mr. G still wasn't very happy with me. He said that what she did was wrong and certainly unacceptable, true, but it did not warrant me smashing her face into a tuba case.

No, in my opinion, it meant she ought to have been beaten into a bloody pulp. I mean, who would just sit and listen to some one calling her boyfriend names and crap like that? Uh, not me.

So, I walked out of the auditorium—where I served my first (and hopefully last) stint of detention in my junior year¾ and into the cold December day—mad fun it was, let me assure you¾ and made my way to the nearest payphone so I could call Rosemary and tell her the location of Peter Gosnell (he was now in some rural town in Oklahoma, with a lady he knew was not his mother), when I noticed a van, similar to Agents Johnson's and Smith's, only not as fancy, parked across the street from the school.

That should have been my first clue. But as usual, I never notice things until it's too late . . . or until I reach the payphone and the dude in the van gets out and grabs me.

Now, don't get me wrong, if I had been expecting him to do this, I totally would have put a bony knee in his groin. But since he grabbed me from behind, what could I do? I'll tell you what I did: I screamed. Oh my God, I screamed like Karen Sue after I slammed her face into the tuba case . . . only I think screaming because some freaking psycho has just grabbed you from behind and won't let you go, despite the elbow you rammed into his side is a better—and more logistical—reason to scream like a three year-old. A lot better.

Oh my God, I'd been kidnapped! Kidnapped! I mean, the guy grabbed me and stuck me in the van, like I was a dog on the way to the vet's office and I just wouldn't stay in the van. Only, I'm not a dog, and I think I had every right to try to get out of that van. I mean, if I got kidnapped, who'd feed Chigger? Who would Rob go out with on Friday night? Most importantly, how would his baby sister turning up missing affect Douglas? Granted, he's more sane than people give him credit for being . . . but who knew what would cause an episode? That's the thing with his voices: a twister could rip through town. No big deal. But God forbid we run out of Cheerios . . .

"Please, why are you doing this? I think I've had a bad enough day," I said stupidly. You dope, I thought, he doesn't give a damn if you had a bad day. He just threw you into a van, for heaven's sake. And against your will, no less.

"Because you wouldn't listen to me the other night on the phone," he said, apparently expecting me to know who he was, which I did, only after he said what he did about talking to me on the phone.

"Well, what did you expect? For me to listen?"

He didn't answer. I swear, he was even more annoying in person. Ugh, and he was ugly, too. I mean ugly with a capital U. I don't mean to be rude, but I'm telling the truth. He had mousy-brown hair that looked like it hadn't been washed in a week, for starters, zits covered his face, he had a huge nose, and his eyes were beady and bloodshot. Maybe after a shower, a good night's sleep, and some super-strong acne medication, he could be considered Do-able. But never, ever a Hottie. I mean, he looked like somebody who sits behind a computer screen all day, for crying out loud.

Oh yeah, I was screwed, big time. Okay, yes, there is a guy that I wouldn't mind if he suddenly decided to kidnap me (oh, take a wild guess at that one), but he certainly wasn't this guy. Oh no.

That guy was Rob Wilkins. This guy, well, at the moment, I didn't know who he was. And frankly, as long as he'd be willing to let me out of that stupid tin can of a van he was driving, I didn't care.

"Hey, buddy, now that I'm held hostage by you, I would at least like to know your name." He didn't answer me. "Who the hell are you, anyway?"

"Lightning Girl's Number One Fan."

Oh. My. God. That might explain why he was kidnapping me.

"Hello, loser, what's your _name_? You know, the one your parents gave you."

"You don't need to know that. Just hear me out, and I'll take you home," he said.

"Okay."

"I'm Jac. And you're Jessica Mastriani."

I know my own name, bozo.

"I know a lot about you, Jessica. For starters, you have a boyfriend."

Uh-oh. I didn't like the sound of that. Not the boyfriend part, just the fact that Jac, the Psycho, knew.

"And you are thinking about working for Dr. Krantz."

Yeah. True.

"But don't, because you don't know what you're getting into. Please, I'm begging you, don't do it."

What? Am I committing suicide? Am I about to jump off a building? Stab myself?

"And why shouldn't I?" I said. I mean, I wanted to know, okay? It's not every day that psychos come up to you and tell you things about yourself that only you're supposed to know, you know?

He said nothing, just cranked up the van, which was not, apparently, an easy task. I mean, it must have busted spark plugs or something, because it took him, like, ten minutes to get the thing running.

And we rode off in silence, and that's when I realized he wasn't taking me to my home. Wherever it was that he lived was where we were going.

We drove for what seemed like hours. I couldn't tell where we were because I was in the back, where had it been Special Agents Johnson and Smith's van, there would have been surveillance equipment, only in Jac's van, it was all empty space. And no windows.

We finally stopped, and then I realized that we were in Chicago.

Jac led me to an apartment building that looked, to put it mildly, like a dump. There was graffiti and litter everywhere I looked.

"You said you were taking me home," I growled at him. Can you blame me for being kind of bitchy to him? I mean, he'd just kidnapped me for heaven's sake.

"I did. Welcome home," he said as we entered the apartment.

The apartment. How do I describe the apartment? Oh, let's see, it was a little on the shabby side, definitely a bachelor pad, oh yeah, and—like I expected—it was covered with computer equipment, _Lord of the Rings _and _Star Wars_ and _Dungeons and Dragons _paraphernalia.

Only what I didn't expect to see was an entire wall emblazoned with pictures of me. _Me._ Lightning Girl Fever. I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd tried to get struck by lightning so he could communicate with me telepathically or whatever.

"Um, where is your bathroom?" I asked, hoping he had one somewhere in that rat hole.

"Down the hall, to the right."

I was not prepared for what I saw in the bathroom . . .

I vaguely remember Mike saying it was only a matter of time until somebody had superimposed my face onto a Playboy bunny's naked body. Well, it had happened.

Oh my God, my kidnapper was not only a psycho, but a porn addict as well. Worse, the porn had my face on it. But, thank God, not my body. I think that would have sent me over the edge.

Okay, that's it. I would kill him, and then use his computer to e-mail Mike to tell him where I was, because by tomorrow morning, I was sure, somebody would be looking for me. I hoped.

Ladies and gentleman, Lightning Girl has been kidnapped.

How ironic.


	4. Chapter Four

Chapter Four:

I suppose I should have seen it coming. I mean, I'm sure that there are some people out there who would want me to be dead, but not kidnapped. _Dead._ Although I can't help wondering who the hell would want to take a person who's wanted dead against their will and not actually finish the job. You know, kill me.

But I was thankful that Jac showed no interest in offing me.

This guy—Jac—just wanted me for his collection. Which was a collection of pictures and life-sized card board cut-outs of _me._

Obviously, he was not the shiniest rock in the garden, if you know what I mean.

Yeah, the shiny rocks tend not to collect pictures of sixteen year-old girls they don't know, nor do they kidnap that said girl.

Ditto kidnap her and then force her to sleep on the couch of a skanky apartment in a particularly rough neighborhood in Chicago. You'd think that if he were really "Lightning Girl's Number One Fan," he'd want to treat her like freaking royalty. I know it'd even be a lot to ask if I'd asked for a spare blanket—not that I'd even be brave enough to touch it. Not in that rat hole, nuh-uh, no way.

Most people would assume a person like Jac to be stupid.

But the worst mistake to make, I've learned from experience in dealing with adversaries, is to assume that your opponent is stupid. I mean _never _assume some one is stupid, because they probably aren't—and then they'll almost kill you. Or your boyfriend. Or any innocent children who happen to be around at the time.

Um, like I said, this dude, well, I'd hate to make fun of him, but he wasn't all there. I mean, he seemed pretty smart, it's just that there must be something _wrong_ with a person that feels it is perfectly okay to kidnap a sixteen year-old. He was not a bit like Doug, who other people tend to accuse of not being "all there," but I mean, everything about this guy—his appearance, place of residence, utility van, everything—hinted that he was just a little mixed up.

Hinted?

Who am I kidding? He'd practically hung up a huge neon sign that said it all. Doug had always been different, even before the voices told him to slit his wrists. But Doug had never kidnapped anyone. And Doug honestly thought he was normal. And Jac drove—and obviously talked to people to whom he was not related, unlike Doug. Jac almost seemed like your average college-aged guy (messy apartment, cheap automobile, porn fetish, and mix-and-match furniture).

Minus the fact that he'd just kidnapped me.

And more about the apartment: the further I went into it, the worse it got. Jac probably lived there because it was cheap. If the rent wasn't cheap, Jac was definitely getting ripped off. Big time. I mean it. There was mildew and mold on the walls . . . at least where the walls were still intact. And it stunk. It was worse than that skanky old house on the pit road. I am not even kidding (though I wish I were). At least Jac had furniture, though, even if the stuffing was coming out of the seams of the furniture wherever it could. And thankfully, there were no condoms or condom wrappers, and Jac hadn't illustrated a need—or more specifically, a want—for them, thank God. But the apartment was still skanky. I mean, any place that has torn-up furniture, holes in the paper-thin walls—not to mention mold and mildew growing on/in them—and gooey, brown water leaking from beneath the fridge ought to be condemned.

And I'm not saying that because I live in a nice house, either. I'm stating it as a fact. Yeah, it was definitely a bachelor pad. No girl I knew would ever want to live there. Or set foot in it to begin with.

After Jac gave me a tour of the apartment¾ which was very short. The tour, I mean. The apartment consisted of a bedroom with two beds; a disgusting bathroom, which I'd already seen; a very small kitchen; and a small living room—into which at least seven top-of-the-line computers were crammed, and a futon couch; he told me that I could sleep on the couch.

And then, to my great surprise, he left me alone.

Only I couldn't sleep, although I really needed to. I will admit it: I cried. A lot. I mean, I missed Rob, and my family, and Ruth, and I had a lot to worry about. Who would feed Chigger his Puppy Chow? And, again, how would this affect Douglas? Did anybody at home know I was even gone? Did they care? Did Rob know I was gone? Would Rob notice that I hadn't called and get worried? Would he even care that I was gone? Or would my parents even think to call him and tell him? Yeah, they probably would. Tell him, I mean. I had a pretty strong feeling that my mother would accuse him of coaxing me to run away with him to Vegas to get married or something (which he hadn't. Much to my chagrin).

But when she saw Rob and found out that he hadn't spoken to—or seen—me in two days . . . What would happen? Would she find some other reason to ponder my disappearance or even call the police?

It didn't take long for me to get a splitting migraine—from thinking about all that, plus the crying.

Although I think I had every right to cry.

I hated Jac. That might have been reason _Numero Uno _to have cried like that.

When I woke up, I saw automatically that Jac was gone . . .

. . . But some one else _was_ there.

"Who the hell are you?" I asked.

"I'm Jac's brother, Craig," he said.

"Okay, Craig, I have a few questions for you," I said. "First of all, I want to know why your brother—and I hate to say this—a freaking,"—only I didn't say freaking—"psycho just picked me up yesterday and brought me here, even though I didn't want to come. And what is up with that thing in the bathroom? And why the hell are you just sitting there? I want to go home!"

I won't lie. I knew I sounded like a whiny four-year-old, but do you remember how some parents say something like, "Oh, I'll never worry about anybody taking my child: They'd bring him right back because he's such a brat"? Well, that's what I was hoping would happen here.

"Please, just stay calm. I have to leave for work. I will answer your questions when I get back." Then he left, leaving me alone. Talk about uncommunicative.

And how the hell was I supposed to stay calm? I mean, I was in the middle of a city I'd only been to a handful of times in my life (my grandma and Great-Aunt Rose both live in Chicago), and therefore didn't know my way around very well, in the living room of a strange apartment. Oh yes, and I was hungry. Very hungry. _And he was telling me to stay _calm_!_

Even though I was starving, my first goal was to find a way out, then to find something to eat. And maybe if I was lucky, I'd find a way out, some food, _and _some money to take with me. I mean, I know stealing is wrong, but so is kidnapping. And I really wanted to go home.

But it would turn out that there were a few tiny windows in that apartment,—only so tiny that even _I _would never fit through them—and there would be a moldy container of Chinese food (lo mein?), and no money at all that I could see. No phone, either. A true bachelor pad. All I found were _Playboy _magazines and some computer equipment that only geeks like my brother Mike would know what to do with—and, apparently, Jac and his brother, too. I am so glad _my_ boyfriend doesn't read _Playboy _and has very little use for a computer.

My boyfriend. Rob. I missed him the most. Do girls that get kidnapped miss their boyfriends more than anyone else they know? I guess. I mean, I hadn't even been kidnapped for twenty-four hours and I missed Rob. And why is that? I mean, at home, I can go for an entire day without seeing him and still be okay.

Don't get me wrong. I missed Mom, Dad, Doug and Ruth, too. It's just that . . . I don't know . . . let's see, maybe it's because I didn't have a date with any of them on Friday night. And Friday was only two days away, too. Would I make it back home in time to go? And, damn, I was supposed to call Rob two days ago, too.

Bored with the situation an hour after I'd woken up, —it hadn't taken very long to search the apartment (twice)—I switched on a computer I saw (there were quite a few of them. Jac and his brother had their priorities mixed up; if I were them, I'd be finding a new place to live, rather than investing in CD burners, scanners, printers and computers to go with them) and got on the Internet, only I couldn't find a way to e-mail Mike. I mean, Jac had AOL, and everything, but I don't have an AOL account because the Internet is not really my thing, so I couldn't sign on as a guest, which, in my opinion, sucked.

But then I wondered if they were even looking for me. I mean, I'd only been gone for about eighteen hours. What if they thought I'd just gone over to Rob's place to, um, well, you know? Which would be way preferable to being in that apartment, the door to which was apparently locked (actually, _that _would be more preferable to a lot of situations I could think of . . . such as being broken up with Rob, or Rob being dead, —well, he _did _come pretty close to it—even though I couldn't see Rob). From the outside, I mean. It was one of those locks that the fire department discourages people from using because it's risky to use, since you have to have a key to lock and unlock it from inside _and_ outside. And worse, I couldn't find anything to pick the lock with. Or if I could even pick the lock. If only I could have found a pen cartridge or a nail file (why don't I carry those for emergencies such as this one, even if I don't use them for their intended purpose?), or a letter opener?

But I digress.


	5. Chapter Five

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Thanks for all the highly supportive reviews!!! Love, BeeBee PS-Sorry if it's short! But I hope it will get better soon.

Chapter Five:

It was almost five o-clock when I heard footsteps in the hallway outside the apartment door. The lock in the door clicked and the door opened to reveal Jac's brother, Craig.

"Look. I don't blame you for wanting to leave. But I can't let you go," he said.

"Why the hell not?" I asked. I was feeling a tad bitchy, what with being shut up in a strange apartment, in a strange city, against my will, and no food at all for the entire day.

"It's hard to explain…Jac is well, like I said, it's hard to explain to anyone who doesn't already know…He has an illness. We've never had enough money to take him to a doctor to get it corrected"--yeah, right. I bet you didn't have enough money after spending it all on computer crap-- "so we've just had to deal. Sometimes…Jac doesn't know right from wrong or reality from fiction."

Then I stopped being mad and started feeling sorry for Jac. And Craig. I knew what it was like, what with Doug's eccentricities and occasional suicidal tendencies and all.

I looked at Craig. He was kind of cute. Not as cute as Rob, but definitely hot. He had short black hair and brown eyes. If he weren't so tired and pale looking, he'd be cuter. But my heart belonged to Rob. Rob. Rob. Rob. Rob. Rob.

But Craig was so cute.

Stop it, I told myself. _Just stop it. You don't know this guy. Yeah, he cares about his brother, but not about you, obviously. You don't know him. Besides, Rob has done so much for you. He cares about you._

Rob cared about me. But this guy obviously didn't. I mean, if he cared, he'd take me home, right? But then again, a brother like his would handle such a thing so well. But I wanted to go home, was that a crime?

"You must be hungry," Craig said. "What do you like to eat?"

"Anything, really, I just want food," I said.

"How's Chinese?" he asked.

I accepted. I just hoped he didn't mean that nasty gob of mold in the refrigerator. But he meant calling a Chinese place and ordering food. Thank God.

I'd never eaten Chinese before, what with Dad's restaurants and all--and the fact that Podunk wasn't exactly a haven of restaurants. I mean, there was a McDonalds and a Pizza-Hut, and all of Dad's places. But no Chinese. And if there had been, I probably wouldn't have been allowed to eat there. Dad calls Chinese food Salmonella-on-a-Chopstick.

And, can I tell you, egg rolls and teriyaki chicken are some of the best foods ever made. Yeah, it must have about a thousand grams of sodium, but it is so good.

Then again, I'd been so hungry, I would have probably eaten the mold off of the walls had it come down to that.

But I highly doubted that the teriyaki chicken I'd just consumed had Salmonella in it.

And Craig could tell that I liked it, too. "I'm sorry. I guess we should get you some food. I wish I could just take you home to your family and explain to them what happened…but my brother…well, you know, he'd kill himself or something. I never know how he'll take things. One day, he's normal: he acts his age, and if you didn't know better, you'd say he was perfectly fine. But on other days, he acts childish and sometimes suicidal. Will you stay here until I find a way to get you home? I mean, all I have to do is send him away for a couple of days. Maybe he'll get tired of you and want you to go home. I'm really sorry, I am. If there's anything you want or need, you'll let me know, right?"

Okay…get me out of here. Only I didn't actually say that. I mean, what was I supposed to say? He had a brother that was similar to mine, and he cared about him.

And how was I supposed to say no to a guy who looked like that?

Bad, Jess, bad. Really bad Jess, I know. My heart belongs to Rob and no one else.

But Craig had such soft lips…what would it be like to kiss them?

"Well…" he said, trailing off, "I guess I'd better go and get you some food. What do you like?"

"Cereal, Cheetos, Fiddle Faddle. The normal stuff," I said.

"Okay. And I'll get you a pillow and a blanket, too. Anything else you'll need?" he asked.

"Yeah. Tampons."

He winced. Grossing him out, I thought, would be a great way to ensure that I'd get home soon.

A few minutes after Craig left, Jac arrived.

"Chinese is in the microwave," I told him.

"Thanks."

I watched him as he ate--he was nothing like his brother who ate politely and gentlemanly, he ate like a pig.

Why couldn't Rob have kidnapped me and taken me to Vegas? I really didn't want to live in a run-down apartment with a pig. Is that such a crime?

"Look, I'm sorry, Jess, but I love you, understand? I need to see your face, smell your hair, hear you breathe."

What a creep.

My life is so grand…

…Not.


	6. Chapter Six

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Thanks for all the reviews. I won't be offended if you keep it up! LOL. (wink, wink)

Personal to GhostMagic19 and TowerPrincess--You honestly think I'd do that?!?! NEVER!!!

Chapter Six:

For the next few weeks, I sat alone in Jac and Craig's apartment, doing nothing. I mean it. I've seen more action at the steam table at Joe's, okay? And let me tell you, that's not a lot of action if you know what I mean.

I've never been so bored--or hungry--in my life. Not to mention lonely. I missed Rob. And Doug.

But if I weren't hungry, bored, or lonely, it would have been a nice vacation from my life. Oh yeah, Jac and Craig were there. Okay, if they weren't there in that apartment, it would be a vacation from my life. A nice one.

But I missed Rob. We were going to go on a date, but NOOOO, I had to get kidnapped and left in this totally skanky apartment, waiting for death. Or possibly for Jac and Craig to forget to pay their rent. Then they'd have to move out and the landlord would notice me and call the cops. I hoped.

But as Fate would have it, Craig owned the place. _Owned_ it--as in, no landlord would ever make them move out. Why anyone would _want_ to buy a dump like that was completely beyond me. And what real estate agent in their right mind would _let_ someone buy the place? It clearly had had mildew growing in the walls for some time.

I hate Chicago. I hate Jac for kidnapping me. I hate Craig for letting him. I hate Karen Sue Hankey for peeving me off so I'd hit her and get a detention. I hate myself for hitting her.

No phone. No e-mail. No communications devices whatsoever.

No TV. No stereo. No games. No books. No entertainment devices either.

I was going to go crazy. Then I got an idea. Maybe I could break a hole in one of the walls and go into the next apartment and tell them to let me use their telephone. Then maybe I could call someone--Rob--to come and get me.

Yeah. Only when I tried this, the wall wouldn't break. Who knew they were so strong? Maybe the tenant in the other apartment had something heavy against the wall. Like a refrigerator or a stove. That's the only explanation of such a thin wall _not_ giving in to a strong push.

I started banging on the wall and screaming "Let me out! Let me out! Let…let me out!!!" But no one came to my rescue.

So I spent another boring week there. Alone, except for when Craig and Jac were off of work.

Whoopee. How fun. So fun, in fact, it was probably illegal. Which it was. I am quite sure that kidnapping is illegal.

And I was a minor, too. They were going to be in so much trouble.

If anyone ever found me, that is.

They would. I hoped.

And one day, someone did.

On Christmas Eve day!!!

There was a strange clicking noise near the door. It didn't sound like a key--and having heard about picking locks in detention during the tenth grade, I thought it sounded more like a letter opener or an ink cartridge for a ball-point pen.

I heard a lot of male voices outside the door.

Were these my rescuers?

I hoped so.

-------

I know it's a short--and evil--cliff hanger.

That means you have to review before you get the next chapter!

Click the pretty purple button…


	7. Chapter Seven

**__**

BloodSoakedTiger: Funny, you sounded like my mom. She's never called me a poop before, though. But it's only a matter of time before she does.

GhostMagic19: I'll admit it, I'm a review whore, so I'm updating super fast so you'll review again. Savvy?

SweetestReject: Am I that_ predictable?_

heidigirl: Pay attention to some stuff Jess says near the beginning. Heh heh.

Chapter Seven:

Men were talking outside the door. One of them was picking the lock--probably not an easy feat considering what type of door it was. I had no idea what to do. Were they burglars? Cops? Drunken idiots? Gang-bangers?

And really, the way things were going, it didn't matter who it was--I was going to bust out of there the moment they walked into the room demanding for the computer equipment or whatever.

Only, as it turned out, it was Rob and his motorcycle friends. Hallelujah. I was saved.

As soon as I saw him, I jumped into his arms. He was kind of taken aback, but he hugged me anyway.

"Mastriani, we don't have much time. We have to leave now. Get your stuff and let's go!"

Shocked at the sight of seeing him,--and several of his burly, tattooed friends--I didn't question what he said and simply went and got my backpack and jacket, made sure I still had Rob's watch and got out of there.

I climbed onto the bike behind Rob and jammed the helmet onto my head. I didn't even have to tell him to go, we sped off down the street and in the direction of Podunk.

I was elated. Not only had I been kidnapped and rescued, but I was rescued by my boyfriend who happens to drive a motorcycle--and likes to drive it really, really fast.

I was so happy that I didn't realize we were being followed until they were right behind us.

Oops.

A white utility van--and not the one with the FBI agents in it, but the one with Jac and Craig in it, Jac driving like a madman.

I'd take the FBI goons any day of the week over Jac and Craig. At least the feds let me see my family.

"Rob. We've got company," I said.

Rob said a bad word and motioned for his buddies to speed up their bikes (which they didn't seem to mind very much…).

The van was getting closer now. I could see Jac's face. He looked angry. No, I take that back: he looked livid. Positively out of his mind with rage.

He leered at me from behind the windshield. Craig shot a look of sympathy at me. He seemed very nice considering his brother was a wacko.

Jac was getting closer and closer. He came close to hitting us several times. Rob had the bike going as fast as he could, but who knew a utility van could go so fast? Unfortunately, there were no cops out on the road because it was, after all, Christmas Eve; everyone was enjoying dinners and dysfunctional family get-togethers, no one would be paying attention to about five motorcycles and a utility van going down the highway.

After about an hour, we lost them. They had to stop for gas because, as Rob's friend pointed out, utility vans probably get about ten miles to a gallon, gas mileage wise.

So the empty gas tank gave us enough time to lose them because we drove on for a few minutes and stopped at a motel to wait for them to come looking for us, during which time we'd give them time to pass us, then we'd leave.

Only we never saw them again. Not that night, anyway, so we continued on.

On and on we drove, and eventually Rob and his crew stopped for gas.

"How did you know where I was?" I asked Rob.

"I can't tell you now while everyone's around. I'll tell you tomorrow," he said.

For a guy who'd just confessed that he loved me a few weeks before, and driven for six hours in the mid-December weather on Christmas Eve, he didn't seem too enthused about seeing me.

Damn.


	8. Chapter Eight

**_Hey to all of my faithful reviewers! (And to anyone who reads but doesn't review, too!) Thanks for the reviews. I'm so sorry it's been so long, but high school _SUCKS!!! _And I'm really obsessed with this one guy, which tends to give me writer's block. Tell him to ask me out, and I'll update sooner! LOL. (I've had a really hard time writing this chapter!)_**

_**Please forgive me--and review!**_

**BloodSoakedTiger:_ Okay, okay, you _don't _sound like my mom now._**

**GhostMagic19:_ Sorry. See above explanation! _**

**Silverwolf92: _Thanks!_**

**Sparklingt87:_ Thanks. I'm trying really hard!_**

**::Shuts up::**

**Chapter Eight: **

We got to Rob's mother's farm at nearly midnight. As fast as we rode, it had taken us over six hours to reach Indiana. Well, Rob and I went to the farm--I think his friends went home to do the whole Santa Claus thing.

Or to celebrate, if you know what I mean.

"Rob," I said. It was all I was capable of saying. Yeah, he saved me from those psychos, but he didn't seem very happy about it. Or seeing me.

And even less happy about discussing it.

"Rob. How did you know? About where I was, I mean." I was truly eager to know this information...

...But Rob, however, seemed apt to completely avoid the subject. He was all like, "Mastriani, I don't really feel like talking about it right now. Why don't we talk in the morning?" Then he put fresh sheets on his bed for me to sleep on, and went downstairs to sleep on the couch.

Why me? Why do I have to get a boyfriend who is hot but terribly uncommunicative? Why? It took him forever to admit he likes me and now that we're officially going out, he acts completely disgusted by me?

What does he think--that I enjoyed being trapped in a disgusting apartment with two guys I didn't even know? If that's what he thought, he so had another think coming. For one thing, they were _pigs. _And for another, my heart fully belonged to him, whether he liked it or not.

So there you go.

And it's not like we weren't official. My parents--whether they liked it or not--knew about our relationship.

So what was his deal, I wondered.

But I didn't wonder about it too long, because I was so exhausted, I went to sleep after about ten minutes of pondering.

And I woke up to someone shaking my shoulder and whispering my name.

It was Rob.

"Jess. Breakfast," he said, then he added, "We'll talk about it after we eat."

He knew me so well.

I dressed and went downstairs to the kitchen, where Rob's mom had prepared more than enough food for breakfast.

"Hello, Jess. It's nice to see you here on such a lovely morning," she said, dropping a spoonful of grits into my bowl.

After we'd finished helping Mrs. Wilkins clear off the table, Rob pulled me out onto the porch.

"Listen, Jess, about last night...well...I'm sorry," he said. "But you have no idea what it's been like these past few weeks. No one knew where you were."

"But what about Mrs. Pierce and Malcolm? Couldn't they have found me?" I asked.

"No. Mrs. Pierce, it turns out, can only tell what a person is doing at any given point in time. She also has flashes of events in the future." Lucky her, I thought as Rob paused to take a breath. "Malcolm can only find objects." Why me? Why do I have to be the freak who finds missing children. You know, I might not have minded knowing the lottery numbers or where the TV remote it.

But some missing kid whose step dad is going to try and pound the crap out of me? Not so much.

"And that is why," Rob continued, "the feds wanted you to come and work with them. You're the only one they've met with your specific ability. And the fact that it's getting stronger..."

I got what he meant. He meant that I was the only person capable of the job.

Which I'd thought was kind of weird, but it made me see that I might have been wrong all along. Maybe I should have cooperated with the agents in the first place.

But they hadn't exactly been so great with me, either, only I now understood why.

"So...How did you know where I was?" I asked.

"I have friends at the police station who were willing to check something out for me, that's all."

God! He wouldn't spill!

"What did you have them check out?" Can you really blame me?

"I had a dream about where you were. I think you sent it to me, because I'd never had anything like that happen before. In my dream, you told me that Jac and Craig Gardner drove a white van and lived in Chicago. The thought just kept bugging me, and so I had a friend check it out." He paused. Again. "But I'm glad I did."

Then he kissed me.


	9. Epiloque

_**Hey...I know it's been a long time, and I'm not sure if anyone will even remember that I started this story. But here is the update. It's the final chapter. I wanted to make this longer, but I do not have the time to write it all the way I want it, so I'm condensing it. Jess is twenty-seven now. If there's anything else you want to know, leave a review with your question, and I'll answer it.**_

_**Love, BeeBee. **_

* * *

_:Epilogue:_

The FBI caught Jac the morning Rob and I arrived at his mom's farmhouse.

Well, they didn't exactly catch him - he turned himself in, and his is now receiving treatment for his obsessive condition.

My mom finally warmed up to Rob, and Rob and I are well, married now, which isn't much different from dating him, only he won't get arrested for making out with me.

And I am now working for the FBI. Imagine that. My daughter Adair had a parents' career day at school, and when she told her teacher that her mom worked for the FBI, and the teacher didn't believe her.

And I almost don't. My powers are getting stronger: I can tell where a person is even without thinking about it. Which is really kind of annoying, now that I think about it.

But it will come in handy as a parent.

And my husband will never screw around on me.

Doug has been cured of his schizophrenia-which was quite a relief to him because Mom would never had let him move out of the house...she just made him move into the house next door.

Well, I found out what Rob was on probation for-he ran a stop sign and caused a minor traffic accident. That's it. Stupid, right?

Well, I don't really have anything else to say. Rob has read everything I've written, no matter how _embarrassing_ the subject matter.

I watched him as he read it-and he thought it was all rather funny.

Signed,

_Jessica Antonia Mastriani Wilkins

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_

**_Responses to Reviews left after the completion of the story-_**

**Exactly: Wow, it was good, odd way to end it. Except school have cameras and wouldn't her parents be super worried. The plot doesn't make sense.** _You're right. Just play along. Sorry the ending was odd. I was going through a bad period of my life at the time, but I didn't want to ignore the story. I would like to go back and fix things, but I don't have the time._

**Nerwen Aldarion: Are you Meg Cabot under the guise of beebee17? Because you wrote just like her AWESOME **_Thank you! That was one of the best compliments I've recieved!_

**Nichole: Hey,  
This was so sweet! You write very in character; you write a great Jess and Rob and Ruth and even Karen Sue Hankey were all in character!  
I know you're done, but I am selfish; I want more! Maybe a little tiny sequel of sorts, w/ Robs POV when Jess was kidnapped? How he found out, what he did with his weeks? Realizing how much he really loves her? You know, that kind of thing. If you have time. It's just, you're a very talented writer and I'd love to see more of your work! If not with this story, then another, please!  
And I hope that boy asked you out :) **_Thank you! I would like to write a sequel to this story from Rob's point of view (if I do, I will credit you), but I don't have time to re-read the series and this story right now. Maybe during the summer? And, the guy never did ask me out, and sadly, he dissed one of my best friends, so I don't like him anymore, anyway! Boys can be dumb sometimes, can't they (except Rob!)?_

**_Thanks to everyone else for your wonderful reviews! I'm glad you enjoyed this story!_**


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